


Twisted

by opalescentgold



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, BAMF Q, Contortion, M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/pseuds/opalescentgold
Summary: Bond expects very little when he is sent to the circus to extract an undercover agent.In hindsight, that was a mistake.





	Twisted

**Author's Note:**

> For the General Prompt Table 010 for “Hello again, Mr Bond”. Much thanks to [castillon02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/castillon02) for the quick beta!
> 
> Warnings: slight body horror (really, really slight), lots of faeries

Bond waits impatiently in the line. It stretches out behind him like a coiled snake, and in the distance, a baby starts to cry. It’s hot and humid today, and he’s dressed in a simple white polo shirt and jeans. One doesn’t go to the circus in a bespoke suit, after all.

Dust kicks up beneath his shoes as he moves forward. In front of him, a young girl whines to her mother, complaining of the heat and the wait and the lack of toys. The Big Top looms over them all, and he can hear cheering inside already.

Bond nudges his sunglasses back into place and holds back his frown. This is hardly his usual scene. He’s better with galas and operas, places with more…sophistication than jokes and clowns and tents in the middle of a barren field. But M ordered and pointed, and so here he is.

A few more steps, and at last, he’s actually inside of the tent. It’s cooler without the sun’s glare scorching his skin, and he takes a moment to let out a sigh of relief. The sound of clapping grows louder as he walks farther in, and he sees that the seats have been divided into sections that surround the centre ring.

A pretty blonde woman smiles at him and directs him to a side section. Bond wonders if he’ll see her again while he sits down, thankfully not next to children. Lights, bright and colourful, dance this way and that, as a man in the ring encourages the audience to clap with him in varying rhythms.

Bond sits back and contents himself with merely watching the cacophony grow as more and more people fill in. At last, everyone is in, and the usher nods to the man in the ring, who smiles widely and throws his arms out wide. He claps quickly, building a crescendo of noise as the audience copies him, and bows out, just as another man in fancier attires bounces into the ring.

“Ladies and gentleman! Children of all ages! Welcome to the Fae Circus!” The ringmaster announces loudly as a group of women dressed in shimmery outfits embroidered with flowers and leaves dance out, swinging hula hoops around their wrists.

And so it begins. Bond hasn’t been to the circus in ages, not since his mother led him by the hand and his father grinned and lifted him onto his shoulders so he could see better, and the flashing, multi-colored lights and unending noise threaten to give him a headache.

Despite that, he freely acknowledges the skill of the performers as they fly on the trapeze and juggle five balls in the air and strut about on stilts, all in outfits reminiscent of faerie myth.

One particular aerialist, a lovely, dark-skinned woman with curly hair and plum lips, codenamed Titania, wraps herself in red silk and tumbles gracefully to the ground, her gold outfit fluttering. Bond rather likes her.

Pity that they’re all suspected of being drug dealers. He might be able to enjoy himself more if this weren’t a mission; he’s meant to extract an undercover agent. 007 doesn’t even have a clue who this agent is, nor what they look like. M simply said they would make themselves known to him and then hung up. Not incredibly useful.

“And now…please welcome our amazzzzzing French contortionist! The one, the only, Puck!” the ringmaster announces as another wave of applause comes and goes. The music, previously bright and quick and ringing, goes dark and low and whispering. The lights dim to dark green and focus on the man gliding out into the ring.

He’s a lithe, pretty thing, with dark, wild curls and bright, intelligent green eyes. His face is masterfully made up with dramatic eyeliner and mossy shadows with flecks of sparkle, and his lips are red and pouty. His skin-tight outfit shows off a generous amount of pale skin.

Puck saunters towards the cushioned platform in the very centre of the ring, hips swaying. He flips himself on and slowly raises himself into a handstand, slow and languorous. His feet are bare.

From there, he splays his legs apart into a split, and James Bond finds himself watching the flexing muscles of his bared back with interest. While the audience claps, Puck lowers his feet until they’re in front of his head, curved into an upside-down U.

And he smiles, a small, sly little thing that makes Bond twitch.

Lifting himself out of the position and lying down properly, Puck throws his head back, the long, graceful line of his throat inviting a bite or two. Leading with his arms, he bends backwards until he’s once again an upside-down U, this time with his head facing away from Bond’s section.

His trousers, he notes, are quite clingy. They stretch across his pert arse perfectly, and Bond has to shift in his seat a little, his own trousers tight.

Unfurling himself with surprising whiplash speed, Puck undulates his spine in a way that really shouldn’t be possible but makes heat fizzle in Bond’s veins anyway. He falls down into a split with ease and rolls his shoulders, the movement irresistibly drawing Bond’s eyes.

Tossing his head back, Puck drags his fingers through his already thoroughly debauched hair and arches his back like a cat, and Christ, how is this show meant to be for kids? He tilts back and back and back until his entire body is parallel to the ground, the back of his skull touching his heel, and the applause thunders in Bond’s ears.

And then Puck raises his other leg until his foot is pointed straight up in the air, and Bond has to swallow because his throat is fucking dry. Rolling onto his knees with a wavy, sensuous motion, Puck places his hands on either side of his head.

The music builds to a crescendo. Looking up at the audience, Puck smiles that little smile and in impeccable timing with the exquisite shriek of the violins, snaps his own neck in a professional manner that Bond normally only sees in other Double-Ohs.

The audience gasps, and Bond himself freezes, eyes widening. Puck’s smirk widens, and as the music builds once more, he winks at the audience, utterly fine. Bond clenches his hands on the edge of his seat, wanting desperately to punish that cheek.

But as soon as they all settle down, assured that their performer did not, in fact, just kill himself, the violins call again, and Puck twists his head farther.

Bond’s breathing in time with the fast beat, flushed. He sits frozen and rapt. There’s something terribly wrong about this, like a marionette on strings, like the human body pushed beyond its limits, but it’s the right kind of wrong for him, and his trousers are far too tight.

The music takes longer to build up again, and this time, the entire tent is silent, anxiously awaiting what they now know will be coming. Puck waits patiently with them, and when the crack of the violins come at last, he twists his head to his other shoulder.

Bond applauds with the rest of the audience as Puck unwinds his neck and stands up tall, bowing elaborately to the cheering audience.

And for the shortest second, he could swear those green eyes catch his, and that that wink is for him.

* * *

Bond spends the rest of the circus performance dazed and trying not to squirm in his seat. The performers who come after Puck are all talented and impressive, but he just can’t bring himself to focus.

When the show is over, and all of the performers run out for one last round of applause, he stands up and claps for Titania and Puck, whose arms are laced together, along with Oberon, who’s an animal tamer, amusingly.

This time, when Puck glances at him and smiles that sly, lazy invitation, Bond understands.

They bow and then the lights go dark for five seconds. When they return to full brightness, the performers are nowhere in sight, and people are leaving. Bond melts into the stream of people, the bulge in his trousers no longer obvious, and heads for a bench under a grove of trees. It’s a reasonable distance away, but the shade along with the encroaching night will dissuade unwanted eyes.

There, he sits down and waits.

It’s an hour later that he hears the barest suggestion of a footstep on his right. Bond glances up and finds Puck, makeup washed off and dressed in a black shirt and black pants but no less enchanting for it, smiling at him.

“Hello again, Mr Bond.”

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [here](https://opalescentgold.tumblr.com/). Please leave a review!


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